


War Orphans

by MagicandMess (magicandmess)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:40:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicandmess/pseuds/MagicandMess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon returning to Winterfell, Arya is less than pleased with Sansa's choice of household guard and help. Kingslayers, wildlings and war-orphans litter the castle, much to Arya's annoyance. That is until she finds her own war-orphan has been returned to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	War Orphans

**Author's Note:**

> Another short 'I don't know what I'm doing because it's 6.30 and I havent been to sleep yet' drabble. I went largely off prompt I suppose but...eh. What can I do?
> 
> Prompt: I Knew You Were Coming

The castle is quiet as she rides towards the gates and there is a cold chill in the early night air which makes her tug on her dark grey cloak. It's not quite how she remembers; there are blackened stones from the fires, piles of rubble where Sansa's men have begun the rebuild and huge spaces where once the archery targets had stood. But it is still Winterfell, still her home.  
A shiver shakes the Stark girl as Sansa's household guard strode across the grounds to meet her, Jaime Lannister at the forefront, looking far too at home for Arya's liking. It appears Winterfell is no longer just her home. “Lady Stark said you would be a few days yet,” Jaime calls, coming to a halt just a few foot from her horse and Arya shrugs her shoulders as response, something both her mother and Septa Mordane would have called insolent. “Well, I'm sure you'll be wanting to see your sister...” And with that he turned, his blonde hair whipping around him like a mane. Arya notices his hand, then and raises an eyebrow. The Arya who had lived in Winterfell before would have loved to hear the tale of his golden hand but this Arya has her own tales.   
She sups with Sansa alone that night, the two retiring to their mother's old chambers to dine. “How many other murderers do we have on our household guard, dear sister?” she asks, raising a cup to her lips.   
“I hear I'm seated across from one at this very minute,” Sansa replies coolly, her eyebrow quirking slightly.  
“You hear wrong. “   
Sansa doesnt argue back.  
The next day, she tours the castle, feeling a stranger in her own home. It bothers her, if truth be told, that Jaime Lannister knows her home better than she does but, when wandering the grounds, it becomes apparent that Jaime is not the only war-orphan Sansa has taken to her service. The cook, she finds, is a wildling and the stable boy has come with Sansa from the Eerie. She introduces herself to each in turn and all but the wildling call her 'Lady Arya', the stable boy muttering 'yes m'lady' when she asks if he would mind re-shoeing her horse. His words are a stab at her heart and she finds herself wishing for one more war-orphan.  
She leaves the armoury until last and enters without asking permission. There is a half finished breastplate which she assumes will be for Rickon – it's small enough, made of dark grey and there is the rough shape of a direwolf which has been hammered into the chest. It's truly beautiful but Gendry, she thinks, would have made it better. On a wooden work bench attached to the wall there is a half-helm, an axe and a broken crown, all roughly made with little detail. Practice pieces, she thinks to herself, as she moves closer allowing her fingers to roll across the cold metals.  
It is then that she spots it, thin enough to go unnoticed from afar. Her hand circles the hilt and she lifts it. Her heart gives a great thump as she remembers Jon's face, solemn and serious as he'd told her her first lesson. It's almost exactly the same size, she thinks. It possibly is – it has been a year since she last saw her treasured sword and she has grown since then, making her judgements slightly askew.   
“I made it from memory,” she hears the voice call behind her, causing her to drop the sword which lands pointy-end down, the blade catching between two wooden panels on the floor. “The size, the weight...”  
Arya turns, feeling half a girl again as her eyes rake over her blacksmith, her bull. “Why?” she asks, retrieving the sword, placing it back on the bench with both hands.  
She waits patiently as he takes a breath, “Because I knew you'd come home,” he says, his lips pulling into a grin as he adds, “M'Lady.”


End file.
